


A Song of Blood and Barons

by AdmiralAkbar1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - ISOT, Gen, ISOT, Mongolia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-04-28 10:28:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14447358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdmiralAkbar1/pseuds/AdmiralAkbar1
Summary: The city of Vaes Dothrak has vanished mysteriously, and in its place lies one that seems otherwordly. It comes filled with strange people and langauges, a mysterious army with terrifying weapons, and a leader whose thirst for warfare is impossible to quench. Princess Daenerys Targaryen and the khalasar of her husband, Khal Drogo, are about to arrive, and the world shall never be the same.





	1. Prologue: Moro

Moro's stallion crested the top of the hill, paying little heed to the steepness of its slope or the rocks that dotted its side. He squinted into the morning sun as it crept up and shone into the low valley, reflecting the dewdrops on the grass like the waters on the surface of the Womb of the World. His breath spilled out like smoke, and he paused to rub his bare arms and ward off the cold. It had been a cloudless night, and the sun had yet to break the morning chill.   
  
Whether it was the sun shining at him or the rhythmic swaying of the grass tricking his eyes, Moro could see neither man or beast ahead of him. Either Qavo had deliberately run away, or he had gotten lost in field both of them had known since they were old enough to ride; Moro didn't know what to find more unbelievable. Wild as he was, Qavo was never the kind to hide from his own brother like that.  
  
Mentally chiding his brother's unusual recklessness, Moro spurred his stallion onward and led it downward into the valley. His mother had told him and Qavo that the hills used to be mountains so high they scraped the stars, until the Great Stallion and his herd trampled them down into almost nothing.  
  
His horse stumbled slightly when its foot went into a divot, but soon righted itself and rode onward. It reminded Moro of another story, this time from his father: several years before Moro's birth, a milk-man of Qarth arrived with his slaves, armed with picks and shovels, claiming to have heard of legends of an ancient Khal's hidden gold in the hills. Moro's father claimed he would show the  _ifak_  a mountain of gold, but when they were alone, showed him a bellyful of steel instead. He would later jape that it was the best trade of his life; an hour's riding for three slaves and a new shovel!  
  
Moro was dragged back into focus when he heard a mysterious noise echoing over the hills. It was almost like the sound of a man breaking rocks or a smith hammering in his forge, but sharper, almost like a popping. Either way, it was a sign of people, and that might lead him to Qavo. Reinvigorated, Moro spurred his horse and pressed onward.  
  
As he entered the nadir, he saw Qavo stumble over the valley's far rim... without his horse. Had Qavo, in his utter foolishness, managed to lose his horse? His hair and leather vest were covered in dust, and he was clutching at his left arm. Moro wasn't sure whether to laugh at his brother's stupidity or be nervous for the shame it would bring to his father's name.  
  
But something seemed seriously wrong about Qavo that became more apparent as he drew closer. He clutched his knife in his wounded arm, which seemed to have been caused by a long cut or a graze from an arrow. As he pulled himself onto the horse, Moro saw eyes wide with fear, and his brother kept babbling about  _ifaki_  warlocks using magic to kill his horse. Moro wanted to ask if Qavo had hit his head in the fall and was seeing things, but Qavo's urgency prompted him to ride as quickly as possible.  
  
As they turned back toward the khalasar, Moro heard the sound of dozens of hoofbeats distant behind him, slowly growing closer. A glance showed that many of them were milk-men, while others looked like traders of Yi-Ti or the N'Ghai. Many were waving swords and thin cudgels in the air, while one held a great yellow banner. As evidenced by their whoops and war cries, they had noticed him, and carried no sort of goodwill toward him. Moro needed no further motivation to ride on.  
  
The air around him was suddenly filled with zips and pops, like what he had heard before finding Qavo. Moro hazarded another glance back toward his assailants. It had seemed that the racket was coming from their cudgels, but he couldn't see them hitting or breaking anything to make the noise. Even stranger, smoke and flames billowed from the clubs' ends! Moro urged his stallion to ride faster, but the unknown foes were still gaining ground, and they slowly drew closer and closer.  
  
Moro heard Qavo try to shout something, but he suddenly grew silent. Moro turned around to find that Qavo had been struck by something - an unseen arrow, perhaps? - and fell from the back of the horse. The last Moro saw of his brother was his body jolting as the pursuing horsemen rode over it.  
  
Moro's stallion gave an unearthly cry before dropping dead, sending him careening into the dirt. He scrambled to his feet, but a wave of pain shot up his ankle and showed that the possibility of escape was truly impossible. He reached at his sidefor his knife, only to find it buried in the ground some distance away. Before he could reach it, the assailants were upon him.  
  
Upon seeing them up close, Moro realized that these  _ifak_  looked nothing like Qartheens, more like the rare  _Andali_  traders who would sometimes pay tribute for safe passage on their way to Vaes Dothrak. All of them were bundled tightly in furs and long coats, some of them dotted with brightly-colored patches of cloth. They were speaking among one another in a strange language that was more foreign than even the Andal tongue, let alone Dothraki.  
  
One of them, their apparent leader, hopped off his horse and pointed the metal-covered tip of his cudgel at Moro's face, repeatedly shouting something about a "rodina." When he got no response, he reached forward and struck Moro on the ear, chastising him like a disobedient dog.  
  
Another rider, one of the Yi-Ti seeming ones, asked him a question in a different language, this time about a "khan." Did he mean khal? Moro shakily raised a hand and pointed it in the direction of the khalasar. They were too small to be a full raiding party, and there were no other Khals passing through. Perhaps they could bring him along as a guide, maybe bring him to a healer who could-  
  
The leader pulled the trigger on his cudgel, and Moro fell silent on the ground. They re-mounted and rode in the direction he had indicated, leaving the body in the sun-drenched waves of the Dothraki Sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an ISOT. If you're unaware, an ISOT ("Island in the Sea of Time", from an S.M. Stirling novel of the same name about Nantucket suddenly being sent back to 1250 BC) in fanfiction is where a person, group, object, etc. is sent from the real world or a canon into a particular time & place within a different work's canon. This is an especially popular genre on AlternateHistory.com's fandom subforum, where I originally published this. This is also a reboot of a story I published on my FF.net account last year, but abandoned after four chapters.
> 
> Yes, this is about Roman von Ungern-Sternberg (aka ever Kaiserreich player's favorite meme-baron). No, he will not declare himself Genghis Khan II, nor will he conquer all of Essos (in his own name, at least).


	2. One: Dmitri I

The sun was shining, and Urga stank of death.  
  
Captain Dmitri Grigorievich Alioshin meandered through the streets, trying his best not to attract undue attention. The Baron had guaranteed his men three days of their ‘fun’ in the city, and it seemed every Cossack, Buryat, and Mongol was taking full advantage of it. Between the alleyways, he could see plumes of smoke rising from southeast. When the Russians were freed from the city’s prison, their natural reaction was to arm themselves and rush toward the Chinese district, hell-bent on vengeance for their captors. The Mongols of the city were content to let them, for they had little love for their former colonizers. Besides, if the Russians were killing and looting Chinamen, it meant they were too busy to kill and loot Mongols. The stories Dmitri had heard of what they were doing… those were best not dwelt on.  
  
The street he occupied, however, straddled the Russian district and the Mongolian city center, where the violence was infrequent and less destructive. However, he still passed by corpses with bullets in their heads lying in the streets, or packs of feral dogs hunting for nearby meals. War was a brutish thing that left no man or place untouched, the least one could do was hope that they could avoid the very worst of it.  
  
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a great many people shouting in the distance, which could only mean a mob was approaching. Dmitri knew that no matter which side the mob supported, he wouldn’t want to be between them and their targets. Searching for a place to hide, he decided to vault the wooden palisade surrounding the Mongolian district before ducking under the edge of the first yurt he saw.  
  
Inside were a Mongol and his family, trying to eat a meal as silently as possible. They froze up in fear upon seeing him, and Dmitri raised his open hands as a non-threatening gesture. A point in the direction of the approaching mob seemed to convince them he was no threat, and they settled down to a degree.  
  
The mob was less than a city block away, and Dmitri could tell that the men shouting various slurs and obscenities in Russian. At the front of them was a voice leading the chorus, a bit shriller than the others. Dmitri knew who that voice belonged to- Doctor Klingenberg, the Asiatic Cavalry Division’s doctor and a fervent ideologue who supported the Baron wholeheartedly.  
  
He paused for a moment, listening to what exactly the men were shouting. What he heard was quite unpleasant, to say the least:  
  
“WHO DESTROYED RUSSIA?”  
  
“ **THE JEWS!”**  
  
“WHO CONTROL THE BOLSHEVIKS?”  
  
 **“THE JEWS!”**  
  
“WHAT MUST WE DO TO THEM?”  
  
 **“KILL THEM ALL!”**  
  
From across the street, Dmitri could hear doors being kicked down as parts of the mob swept inside, in search of their proclaimed enemies. Most of the time, they would stream back into the streets, proclaiming the house loyal to the Baron and the Czar. At one house, however, a cry rose out from among the crowd and even more rushed inside.  
  
They had found one.  
  
He could only make out the cries from an old man over the din of the crowd, probably praying or begging for mercy as the attackers fell upon him. Dmitri didn’t have to see the blows raining down on the old Jew to wince at them, and was almost startled into yelling when a gunshot abruptly rang out.  
  
Most of the mob had started to move own down the street, while some lingered, laughing and jeering while a young woman screamed inside the house. As much as he wanted to help her, there was little Dmitri could do without also making himself a target for the mob. So he sat in silence until her screams faded and the street was silent once more.  
  
Confident that the pogrom had moved onwards, Dmitri silently gave his thanks to the Mongol and his family before venturing out of the yurt. He tried as hard as possible to avoid looking at the bodies littered in front of the house before turning back in the direction he came from. Best to stay where the pogrom had already passed, they’d be unlikely to go through a street twice.  
  
Dmitri eventually found himself in the square front of the Russian consulate, who were flying a Tsarist flag and had guards at the gates. The Baron had given orders to leave the building intact, but the ambassador was unwilling to take any risks. The only other men lingering nearby were a group of Cossacks, cheering slurred cries of victory and raising vodka battles. It seemed they had sated their desire to loot.  
  
“Eh, you! Russian!” one of them called out. “Yes, you! Come over here!”  
  
Despite knowing that drunkenness often begets belligerence with a Cossack, Dmitri heard no malice in the man’s voice. A bit hesitantly, he strolled across the square to where the Cossacks were reveling in their victory.  
  
“You need to see this, Russian! Now, where did I…  _blyat_ ,” he cursed as he accidentally spilled the last of the vodka in his bottle as he rummaged along his belt. At last, he let out a triumphed “A-ha!” and pulled out a sword.  
  
Dmitri only needed one glance to realize that it was far different than any sword he had seen in his life, let alone the  _shashka_  that Cossacks usually carried. It was made of a dull, dark metal, and the blade had an exaggerated curve that reminded Dmitri of a giant sickle. Whatever it was, it had traveled from somewhere very distant to arrive in Urga.  
  
“Is very nice, no?” the Cossack asked. “My  _kurin_  came across a band of nomads wearing leather vests and attacked using arrows. Can you believe that? Arrows?! So we kill them, then I take this beautiful sword as trophy!”  
  
“Yes, very lovely,” Dmitri replied flatly, “I’m sure it is your pride and joy.” At that moment, one of the Cossacks’ comrades called him back over to rejoin the partying, freeing Dmitri from the burden of former conversation. Taking the opportunity, he wandered out of the square, and down another alleyway. Urga seemed to get stranger and stranger with every passing day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a sidenote: I'm not anti-Semitic, I'm not advocating the wanton slaughter of those of another religion. The pogrom in Urga was a real thing led on Ungern's orders (or at least with his acquiescence), and he was known for being rabidly anti-semitic and blaming the Bolshevik seizure of power on the Jews.


	3. Chapter Two: John

John Henry Preston, of the Anderson & Myers meatpacking company, was nervous.

He was pacing in the second floor of the company offices, holding a rifle, occasionally stopping to peek through the blinds at the chaos unfolding outside. The streets were empty now, but occasionally a few drunk Russians would pass by and try to open the gate. A yell would usually be enough to discourage them; failing that, a warning shot.

John hadn’t had to actually _shoot_ anyone today, but he couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling that something would go wrong. The Russians’ leader, this Baron Ungern, hardly seemed like the trustworthy type. What if he couldn't control his men, or, God forbid, ordered them to charge the building? He couldn't stand the thought of-

"John, I-"

"WHAT?!" John whirled around, rifle at the ready. He sheepishly paused and lowered it when he realized it was just Geo. "Oh, uh... sorry."

"I just wanted to say that you should probably get some rest. You've been up here for twelve hours now. You should probably sleep. Or eat. Or go to the can."

"I guess you're right. It's just..."

"Margaret?"

"Yeah. I just hope she isn't caught up in all this insanity." Two weeks ago, she'd wired him from Port Arthur to let him know she was taking a train up to Urga, but that was the last he'd heard of her. He'd received word from the American consulate that the railroads were clear, but if something had happened to her...

"You alright, John?" Geo put a hand on his shoulder, and John was aware he was starting to sway.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just need to rest a bit." He staggered over to a chair and sat down, almost tipping back and falling off entirely. He tried to close his eyes, but every time he did, all he could hear was the faint sound of distant gunfire, dragging him from the precipice of rest every time. It seemed that sleep would elude him today.

Geo seemed to notice his predicament. "You should head down to the basement, it's quieter down there."

Using the last of the energy in his beleaguered body, John pulled himself up from the chair and staggered down the stairs, his hands quivering as they guided him down the railing. At last, he found himself in the office basement, where rows of filing cabinets had been arranged into makeshift bedrooms. The lights were off, and candles had been set up across the room. No luck with the generator, then. Most of the other workers and their wives were in bed

The last of his energy fading, John climbed on a makeshift ‘bed’ – merely a bundle of clothes and couch cushions with a thin blanket on top. But it was enough.

Just as his eyes closed, John heard a loud _crash_ outside. Then another. The ceiling shook, dust and plaster drifting to the floor. Someone yelling upstairs. Geo.

As much as he tried to drown them out, his thoughts still bubbled up like steam from a closed pot. Light bulbs swaying, then going out. Dirt, great chunks of it, falling from up above. Men screaming in their beds after the shells hit. Fumbling, choking, _burning_. Where was his mask?! Oh, god, he needed to get out! Out! _Out!_

With an energy not even he knew he had left, John shot upright and bolted up the stairs, eyes darting about for any kind of threat. Instead, all he found was Geo sitting on the floor, tenderly holding his left foot in his lap.

He glanced in John’s direction. “Hey John,” he hissed, his wince barely turning into a smile. “Just was carrying one of the chairs down to help block the door“ - he gestured at a makeshift barricade in front of the double doors - “when I lost my grip and dropped the damned thing on my foot.”

John stepped forward. “Do you want me to help with anything? Bandage, help moving the desk, stand guard while you-“

“It’s alright, John.” Geo held up a hand. “I’ve got Jameson watching guard up on the second floor, and all I’ll get is a wicked bruise come tomorrow morning. You should go back downstairs and get some rest, you sure as hell need it.”

“Yeah… rest.” John turned and went back down the stairs to the basement. He just hoped this one wouldn’t turn out to be a tomb.


	4. Chapter Three: Oliver

Oliver Joseph Guppel was a good man. He answered questions honestly, abstained from smoking, stayed faithful to a wife half a world away, prayed before his suppers, kept his ledgers straight, and treated all men he met with respect. His only vice was indulging in food and drink from time to time – he was far removed from the trim athlete of his college days – but he had kept it under control for several years.

What did he do to deserve this?

The damned Chinaman and his army were thieves, true, but they enforced something resembling the rule of law. The Russians never bothered with any pretenses. For three days now, Urga was a charnel-house. The only people spared were the Russians, Americans, and other western foreigners. Oliver hoped that his nationality alone would be enough to save him.

The same could not be said for the people huddled in his closet.

When old Moishe Glavinsky came knocking on his door two nights ago, wife and son in tow, Oliver instantly understood what was going on. He had read the newspapers, he knew what had been going on all over Russia. If the Russian Army showed up, it wasn’t a question if a pogrom would occur, only when. Oliver never saw eye to eye with Moishe on some political issues, but he’d be damned if he’d leave the man to die out there.

The next night, Moishe’s son Lev sneaked out and came back with two more families: the Mendelsons and the Pinskers. Boris Pinsker tried to offer Oliver a handful of gold rubles out of gratitude, but he refused – it was a favor, freely given. When Boris continued to insist, Oliver said it was for everyone’s safety; the Pinskers might need it if they were to flee, and Oliver getting money with no source would raise too many questions. That managed to quiet him down.

Oliver stood by the closed window, occasionally peeking through the curtains whenever he heard the muffled rhythms of hooves or boots passing by. He was being paranoid, a part of his mind seemed to say. What creates suspicion more than seeming like you have something to hide? But wouldn’t acting casual in the middle of a warzone seem even more like he’s hiding something?

He then realized that he was peeking his head out while lost in thought for a good ten seconds.

The second floor would be good. Just have the curtains open, turn on a lamp, and be visible reading, or writing, or doing something that doesn’t scream ‘I’m harboring an enemy of the people, please arrest me.’

Oliver nervously crept up the stairs, as if the very creaking of the floorboards might betray him. When he arrived at his bedroom, he made a great show of throwing back the curtains, lighting an oil lamp (only the Russian consulate had electric lights, and they had to put up with a smoke-belching generator in their yard), and sitting in his chair. Dostoyevsky seemed like a good choice; the brain can’t worry if it’s too busy trying to decipher the book.

About half a chapter in, Oliver felt his eyes begin to droop, and decided now would be as good a time as any to put down the book. The sun was beginning to set, and the long shadows made the muddy roads look like some alien landscape.

At that moment, a squadron of Cossacks trotted through the neighborhood, glancing warily at every house. Their sergeant, a tall and ruddy man with a greasy black mustache, dismounted and started barking orders to the other soldiers. As his men lined up around the fence outside the house, rifles at the ready, he opened the gate and strode through.

Oh no.

Oliver dropped the book, bolting downstairs as fast as his portly body could carry him. He threw open the door to the storage closet and hissed “Kill the lamp!” A trio of thumps against the door communicated his message well enough. Lev Glavinsky silently nodded and switched off the oil lamp.

Straightening his collar, Oliver composed himself and started walking to the door. He had it all prepared in his head: he would kindly welcome the sergeant, maybe invite him in for tea – in the parlor, the study is too close to the closet – and politely inform him that he had never associated with any Jews for the past year, but would gladly inform the Russians if he knew their whereabouts.

The sergeant rapped on the door three times again, more forcefully than before. As Oliver opened it, he was not prepared for what he saw. The sergeant was there, an absolute brute of a man a full head taller than Oliver, flanked by two beady-eyed privates nearly as tall as him. His uniform was decorated by splatters of what Oliver _hoped_ was dried mud, and his hand rested on a heavy club dangling from a leather belt. The other was holding a Colt revolver, fully cocked and pointed right at Oliver’s gut.

“Sir, I- I- I- I…” That would be the most coherent statement Oliver would say for the rest of the day.

“ _Privyet,_ Mister Guppel,” the sergeant casually replied. “My captain has received reports that you are harboring traitors and enemies to the Russian people in your home. Is this true?”

Oliver found himself frantically nodding.

The sergeant’s smile grew predatory and he softly clicked his tongue. The two men at his side smoothly slipped past Oliver and entered the house, checking every room and occasionally pounding the floors and walls with the butts of their rifles to check for hidden spaces.

As the soldiers searched Oliver’s house, he remained out on the front stoop, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the sergeant. The brute would sometimes amuse himself by twitching the arm holding the revolver, his eyebrows jumping up with silent laughter whenever Oliver flinched. Oliver then became acutely aware that he was sweating like a pig, and shakily blotted a handkerchief across his forehead. He offered it to the sergeant as an awkward attempt at civility, but the man mockingly grinned and shook his head.

Finally, one of the privates yelled something, and three more of his comrades rushed through the gate and into the house. When they emerged a minute later, ten other trudged out alongside them, hands over there heads. Oliver kept his eyes downcast, but he caught glances of their faces: Mrs. Mendelson was choking back tears, while Lev Glavinsky stared at him with a hatred that no words could describe. Last out came Boris Pinsker, with a slight frown and eyes full of the pity. For whom, Oliver couldn’t tell.

As the ten Jews were led out of the gate, the sergeant closed it and said, “The motherland thanks you for your cooperation, Mister Guppel!” He mounted his horse and rode off with a chuckle, and the street was as deserted as it was five minutes ago.

Oliver stumbled back into the house, silently closing the door behind him. The house was untouched – the worst the Russians had done was kick up the edge of a rug and scuff the floor by the door – but it felt like a tornado had just swept through. Nervously, Oliver stepped his way toward the closet where _they_ were only two minutes ago. It still felt inhabited: the gas lamp was still warm, plates from an early dinner were stacked in a corner, and the air lingered with the scent of Mrs. Glavinsky’s perfume. But its inhabitants were never coming back, and they were as good as dead.

As he turned to leave, Oliver noticed a small glint in the far corner, it was a small leather bag, filled with Boris Pinsker’s stash of gold rubles. Inside was a note, hastily scrawled. “ _Oliver- take these, for we cannot use them where we are going. Thank you._ ”

Oliver fell to his knees, sobbing.


End file.
